“There’s a stream a mile on,” said I. “We’ll stop for a minute there. And now you can help me, Mona. I want you to drive the Lowland, for I must return his car.”
“Return it?” cried Mona.
“Of course. To The Beau Sejour.”
“Supposing you’re seen.”
“I shan’t be,” said I. “At four o’clock this morning, the whole of Vendôme was dead. But we mustn’t throw time about, for it’s nearly twelve. And now I must fix that jet. It’s clear enough now.”
I turned and walked to the Lowland. Two minutes later her engine was idling sweetly, as though it had never stopped.
From one of the Lowland’s pockets I took some wash-leather gloves. As I drew them on –
“Take your seat,” I said, “and follow me on to the stream. I shan’t be a moment there, and–”
“I’m going to bathe your face.”
“You spoil me,” I said. “Anyway, after that, you will lead me back to Vendôme. You will stop just short of the town and wait by the side of the road. And then, when I come back, I’ll drive you to Blois. One moment. Do you feel sleepy?”
“Sleepy?” she cried. “Is the play as dull as all that?” I began to laugh. “God in heaven, Richard, you’re out of the Middle Ages. That’s what’s the matter with you.”
We stopped by the drowsy water, where more than once I had lunched, and Mona bathed my face as though I was four years old. And when she had done this, she slid an arm round my neck.
“Hold me a moment, Richard.”
I put my arm about her and held her close.
The world about us was breathless: the poplar boughs above us might have been done in stone; and all the sound we could hear was the lisp of the little stream.
“Calm after storm,” said Mona. “Havoc’s gone west with Gedge. You sat down to play with Death three weeks ago: and you kept on raising him: and now the game is over, and you have won.”
“But for you,” I said, “I should be lying in the dingle…with two feet of earth above me and more than a scratch on my face.”
She nodded. Then –
“Do you know why my uncle came down – on that awful night?”
“I assumed that he was uneasy.”
“He was – because he knew me. He feared, the moment he saw you, that I might have fallen for you. That’s why at dinner that night I laid it on with a trowel. But my uncle wasn’t convinced – and that’s why he went to see if I’d left my room.”
“You’re the bravest girl, Mona.”
She shook her head.
“No,” she said. “You’re brave. You sat down to play with Death.”
“So did you that night. And tonight you’ve done it again.”
“I know. But not out of…bravery.”
Before I could make any answer, she had put up her face and kissed me – and slipped away.
Then we re-entered the cars and set out for Vendôme.
During the run I endeavoured to look ahead.
So far as I could see, I had done no evil, but good. Château Robinet would not be entered on Tuesday night: but Brevet would not know this and so would make his way to the rendezvous. And when we had dealt with him, we could withdraw to England quietly enough. Unless I was much mistaken, Gedge’s body would not be found for at least three days: and another three days would go by before it was found to be that of the man who had stayed at Vendôme. Still, there was one loose end – which must be tied up. Punter. When Punter missed Gedge, he would at first count himself lucky and would take no action at all; for initiative found no favour in Gedge’s eyes. But when Tuesday morning came, but Gedge was still not to be seen, Punter would feel that something ought to be done. And if he wired to Brevet, then Brevet would fail to appear at the rendezvous. And what of Rust?
I decided to discuss with Mansel the action which we must take, for I was determined that Brevet should pay his debt. In a way he was worse than Gedge: for Gedge’s vice was inherent – he was a criminal born: but Brevet was not. And Brevet had spoken with Jenny, had seen for himself how rare was the grace that she had – and then had sought to carry her into a den of thieves.
It was not quite half-past three, when the Lowland came to a standstill a lady’s mile from Vendôme.
As I ran alongside –
“Is this all right?” said Mona.
“Splendid,” said I, “and thank you very much for coming so well. I’ll be as quick as I can, but I doubt if I shall be back under half an hour.”
“Time for a nap,” said Mona. “I’m sleepy now.”
Five minutes later perhaps, with lowered lights, the Whistler stole under the archway and into the cobbled yard of The Beau Sejour.
To my relief, a place had been left in the garage, no doubt against her return; and when I had driven her in, I took the key from her switch and put it into a locker beneath the dash. And then I left the car and, when I had shut the door, I took off my wash-leather gloves.
As on the morning before, all the hotel was in darkness, both back and front: and a very few moments later I stepped out into the street.
I had walked for two or three minutes and had seen no one at all, when Bell fell in beside me and touched his hat.
“Ah, Bell,” I said.
“I’m thankful to see you, sir. When you took the Whistler in, of course I thought it was Gedge. An’ then you came walking out. I take it, sir, he won’t need a car any more.”
“He’s had his last run,” I said. “He put a foot wrong – and I put him where he belongs.”
“I’m glad to hear it, sir. If ever I saw one, there was a dangerous man.”
“Where’s Captain Mansel, Bell?”
“At Blois, sir. And not so easy. He was here himself till two. But he’s staying at Blois till six, so we’ve plenty of time.”
As we made our way to the Lowland, I told him what had occurred.
“And the moment we’re in,” I said, “you and Carson must plug that hole in the car. I don’t think it’s very obvious, but it might make somebody think.”
“Very good, sir. A plated bolt would be the easiest way.”
“Good for you,” said I.
Bell was ever the soul of ingenuity.
As we left the town, some clock chimed a quarter to four, and ten minutes later I saw the Lowland ahead.
“There she is,” I said, pointing. “I expect Miss Lelong’s asleep. She’s stood up devilish well, but she’s had an exacting day.”
And then I knew she was sleeping; for else she would have seen us and put on her parking lights.
Very gently I opened the door
But she was not asleep. The Lowland’s cushions were empty, and Mona Lelong was gone.
I should have sought for her, but I saw a little notebook beside the driver’s seat. It had belonged to her bag – a bag I had bought for her use, when we were in Chartres.
By the light of the ceiling lamp, I read what she said.
I have served your turn, my dear, and now I have faded away. It’s very much better so; for soon you must fade away and you don’t want me round your neck. And there are other reasons.
I’ve so much to thank you for. But most of all for being yourself with me. I don’t quite know how you did it. Captain Mansel tried, and John Bagot – and they were sweetness itself. But you were yourself. You gave me forbidden fruit – fruit that I’ve often gazed at and longed to have: but it was forbidden to me, because I was an outcast – a thief and a confederate of worse than thieves. You knew all that, but it cut no ice with you. That day we spent in the mountains – I touched high-water mark then. The dog had its paws on the table: but if you noticed the outrage, you gave no sign.
But now the play is over – at least, it will be over on Tuesday night. And then you’ll go back to the world to which you belong – to Maintenance…and Jenny… And, you see, I can’t go with you. We both know that. Your birthright will admit you. But I – I sold my birthright, as Brevet did. Of course I could pass – as he does. But that would cost me what self-respect I have. And so I have faded out.
Will you give my love to Jenny? Tell her the truth about me and then give her my love. She’ll understand quite a lot that I haven’t said.
Goodbye, Richard darling.
I am so proud to have been,
Your loving friend,
THE STOAT.
PS. – Don’t worry. I’m through with crime.
PPS. – The switch-key is under the mat.
For a long time I stared through the windscreen, although there was nothing to see. Then I put up the little notebook and put out the ceiling light.
“Miss Lelong has gone,” I said. “The switch-key is under the mat. You take the wheel, Bell. I’m – rather tired.”
When I said that I was tired, it was no more than the truth – I had had but three hours’ sleep in forty-eight hours. But I am well accustomed to going without my rest and, in fact, I had not felt weary until I saw the notebook that told me that Mona was gone.
The girl’s abrupt departure had hit me hard. I knew she was right to go, not only because her presence might soon have embarrassed us, but because, ‘when the play was over’, she could not step back, as we could, into the life we led. She had put herself out of court by doing as she had done, and, though we had been willing to help her, she would never have sailed under colours which she had no right to fly. She had said as much in her letter. But though she had done what was best – for herself as for us, her going had shaken me; for I had grown fond of Mona, and she and I together had been taught terrible things. Besides, she had saved my life… And here was, of course, the reason why she was more easy with me than with Bagot or Mansel himself; for when two together have stared Death out of countenance, they share forever something which neither the one nor the other can share with anyone else. But what distressed me most was the knowledge of what it had cost her to take her leave. The price had been very high. She that had nothing had given up that which she had. For she had been happy with us. For eight tumultuous days she had lived and moved with men of her father’s standing, with men whose hands were clean. And now the interlude was over. She had not returned to dishonour: but she was gone into a world in which she had no place; for her heart was with her own kind, yet run with them she could not, because of the days before.
My mind was still full of her going, when Bell drew up at the door of The Fountain Hotel.
“Room 202, sir. I’ll see to the car.”
A night porter took me up to the second floor, and one minute later I entered a pleasant suite.
Mansel, who had been dozing, was up in a flash.
“All well?” he said.
I nodded.
He sighed with relief.
“And Mona?”
“Has taken her leave.”
“And our gentleman friend?”
“Is dead.”
“Damn you, William,” said Mansel. “I wanted to kill him myself.”
I laughed, and he poured me some liquor, of which I was very glad.
And then I sat down on a sofa and put up my feet, and Mansel called Bagot in and I told them my tale.
When at last I made an end –
“William,” said Mansel, “you’ve taken Time by the forelock – and pulled it out. But I don’t mind admitting I’m glad to see you back. You see, I saw something you didn’t. I saw Gedge’s eyes, as he followed you out of Vendôme.
“I didn’t dare come after, for fear of spoiling your game. I very nearly did. When I’d had a word with the porter, I very near rang up Bagot and told him to bring the Rolls. And then I decided not to. You’d bluffed Gedge, good and proper – a really remarkable feat: and if I looked over your shoulder, I might tear everything up. But the moment I saw him go by, I knew he was out for blood. My only comfort was that he thought he had caught you bending, and I hoped very hard that that would turn the scale. But I did not like the thought of Dieppe on a Sunday night. However, as I say, I felt you must play the hand.”
“You think he meant to get me before he drove out of Vendôme?”
“Of that,” said Mansel, “I have not the slightest doubt.”
I laughed.
“It never occurred to me till we had left Rouen behind.”
“Perhaps,” said Mansel. “But you hadn’t seen his face.”
“And but for a speck of dirt, he’d be alive now.”
“That’s the way it goes,” said Mansel. “An empire falls – because some printer’s devil has missed his tram.”
There was a little silence. Then –
“I’m sorry,” said Bagot, “that Mona Lelong has gone.”
“So am I,” said Mansel. “But it’s very much better so for all concerned. I’d a great regard for that girl, and now I’ve a great respect. Her right hand offended her – and so she has cut it off. We can all do that, you know: but devilish few of us do.”
I could not follow him there; but I did not pursue the point – in case he asked for the notebook which I had kept to myself.
“And now,” said Mansel, “for the future. So far as I can see, you’ve covered up very well. There’s only one thing – but, first of all, tell me this. Was the steamer English or French?”
“French,” said I.
“Good,” said Mansel. “And now we needn’t worry. You see, there’s Mona’s suitcase, which will be found on board. But the French will take no action – or if they do, the channels employed will be so tortuous that weeks will go by before the hunt is up. And long before that, the scent will have disappeared. Besides, all her stuff was new; so it wasn’t marked. And now for Punter…
“When Punter appears this morning outside The Beau Sejour, Gedge will not be in the window, to take his report. What, then, will Punter do?”
“Nothing,” said I: “unless he’s very much changed.”
“I quite agree,” said Mansel. “Gedge was a jealous lord, and I’m sure that he firmly discouraged what he would have called ‘butting in’. So Punter will take no action. His orders certainly were to pass, but on no account enter The Beau Sejour. That’s only common sense; for the wicked who assemble in public, are apt to assemble in jail. So I think we may safely assume that Punter will do nothing today. But when tomorrow comes, but Gedge isn’t there, Punter will grow uneasy. After all, tomorrow’s ‘the day.’ And as tomorrow goes on, but Gedge doesn’t appear, Punter will feel that something has got to be done. He will, therefore, communicate with Brevet – probably by wire. They must have arranged some method, in case of accidents: and the Post Office Telegraph offers the simplest way. And, as Brevet is as shrewd as they make ’em, Brevet will disappear. So he must not wire to Brevet. And to keep him from wiring to Brevet, we must pick Punter up.
“If I know Punter, it shouldn’t be very hard. He crumples easily. When he sees the Rolls beside him, he will go quietly enough, whatever the hour of the day. And two of the servants can hold him, till Brevet has left the château, en route for Vendôme.”
“And Rust?” said John Bagot.
Mansel raised his eyebrows.
“About Rust we can do nothing, because we do not know him by sight. And it’s too late to get to know him. So if he puts a spoke in our wheel – well, it can’t be helped. But as Punter is reporting to Gedge, I think it likely that Punter gives orders to Rust.
“And so we can take today off.” He came to set a hand on my shoulder. “And now, if I were you, William, I’d take my rest. You show no signs, but I think that you must be whacked.”
“I am pretty tired,” I said slowly. “I’ll write out a wire to Jenny and then I’ll go to bed.”
But when I entered my room, there was Bell with peroxide and ointment, with which to dress my face. And he would not let me be, until he had cleaned and anointed the two or three scratches I had.
He had bought some sterilized lint, with which to do the work: and that, I suppose, was more fitting than a little square of linen, soaked with wayside water and smelling very faintly of Mona Lelong’s perfume.
At nine o’clock the next morning Punter emerged from the yard of The Beau Sejour, Vendôme. I know this because I was standing some twenty-five paces away.
For a moment he stood by the archway, biting his nails. Then he turned to his right and began to walk down the street.
I nodded to Rowley, and Rowley nodded to Bell – who was sitting at the wheel of the Rolls, perhaps sixty yards off.
As Punter passed the alley, Mansel fell in beside him, and I was three paces behind.
“I want you, Punter,” said Mansel.
The man started violently. Then –
“Oh, my Gawd,” he said. “You didn’t ’alf give me a turn.”
As the Rolls slid alongside –
“In you get,” said Mansel.
Punter shot a frantic look round. Then he saw me and Rowley: and then he got into the car.
As the car moved off –
“Where’s Gedge?” said Mansel, sharply.
“Gawd knows,” said Punter, with bolting eyes. “I ’aven’t seen ’im since Sunday, an’ that’s Gawd’s truth. ’Is car’s in the garridge all right. I think ’e must be sick.”
“You’re lying, Punter,” said Mansel. “You’d better come clean.”
“S’elp me Gawd, I’m not, sir. I wish I was.”
“Why do you wish you were?”
“’Cause we got a job comin’ off – on Thursday night. An’ Brevet in Paris, an’ all.”
“Where’s the job?” said Mansel.
“This side of Châteaudun.”
“I thought it was at Morle,” said Mansel. “The Château Robinet. And I don’t think Thursday’s right. You should be at Arx on Thursday.”
Punter expired.
“There you are,” he said. “I always knew Auntie wasn’t up to your weight. In course I never said so. But I tole ’im I knew your shape an’ ’e’d better leave you alone. But ’e wouldn’ listen to me. Talked about amaterze an’ wot ’e’d do to your guts.”
“What’s his car?” said Mansel.
“Dark-blue Whistler,” said Punter. “She’s in the garridge all right.”
“Where were you meeting Brevet?”
“Pickin’ ’im up in Chartres at ’alf-past eight.”
“Where?”
“In the station yard.”
“You’re lying, Punter,” said Mansel.
“No, sir,” said Punter. “You can ’ave Brevet for me. A proper leper, ’e is. Ole school tie be —. ‘A major operation,’ ’e calls it, when ’e does a — in. ‘I’ve lost another patient,’ ’e says.” He turned to look at me. “Fancy you gettin’ out o’ that jam, sir. I thought you was for it, then. Auntie was like a madman and Brevet got a crick in ’is neck. The things they said of The Stoat. An’ even then we couldn’ see ’ow she done it. An’ then the bomb goes off an’ the tunnel comes down.” He wiped the sweat from his face. “I was only ten feet off an’ I thought I was dead. An’ all the fuses gone, an’ nobody’s got a torch. Gawd, wot a night! I don’ wonder the Baron goes balmy.”
I was shaking with laughter, but Mansel steadied his voice.
“That’ll do, Punter,” he said. “I want to know where Gedge is.”
“In course you do,” cried Punter. “An’ so do I. Well, it doesn’ matter now, as you’ve pulled me in. But I ‘ave been wantin’ to know for twenty-four hours. Unless he’s sick or in bed, I dunno where he is. I tell you, ’is car’s in the garridge.”
“At The Beau Se’jour?”
Punter hesitated. Then –
“You saw me come out,” he said. “I ain’t given nothin’ away.”
He had, of course, in the beginning: but I think he may be forgiven, for Mansel’s sudden appearance had thrown the man off his guard.
We presently stopped by a wood, some thirty miles west of Vendôme. Mansel and Bagot had picked it the day before, for it lay six miles from a village, and that had no telephone.
And, as the Rolls came to rest, Bagot and Carson appeared.
“’Ere,” cried Punter. “You ain’t goin’ to bump me off?”
“It’s all you’re fit for,” said Mansel.
“Oh, not an ole frien’, sir,” cried Punter. “I’ve known you more than ten years.”
We all broke down at that, and Punter looked greatly relieved.
“Not this time,” said Manse!. “But cross me again, Punter, and I will show you no mercy – I mean what I say. So if ever you see me coming, Gedge or no Gedge, you’d better get out of my road. By rights, I should put you to death. If you’d helped to abduct Mrs Chandos–”
“I tole ’em not to,” shrilled Punter. “I tole ’em that if they pinched ’er, you and Mr Chandos would foller ’em down into ’ell.”
Mansel continued sternly.
“I say, if you’d been in that show, in ten minutes’ time you’d be hanging from one of those trees. But, as we don’t know that you were, although you’re a rotten blackguard, we’re going to spare your life. Get out and go with Carson. He and Rowley will see that you don’t get into mischief this afternoon.”
Punter left the Rolls. And when Carson showed him some handcuffs, he put his wrists together without a word.
“Take him on, Rowley,” said Mansel. “Carson, come here.”
As Carson stepped to the door, Rowley followed Punter into the wood.
“In view,” said Mansel, “in view of the lies he has told us and which he may think we believe, I think you will have to leave him at half-past six. But take all his money and leave the handcuffs on. Until he is rid of them, I don’t think he’ll give his mind to getting in touch with Brevet or anyone else.”
“Very good, sir,” said Carson, grimly.
“That means you’ll have time to burn. So get some supper somewhere, before coming on.”
Then Bagot got into the Rolls, and we took the way we had come.
We did not stop at Vendôme, but turned to the right for Tours, and a short four miles from Château Renault we turned to the right again.
Almost at once we perceived a ruined barn…
The spot was solitary. Gedge had chosen it well.
Forty minutes later, we made our way back to Blois.
The four of us lunched at The Fountain and left the hotel with our luggage at three o’clock. We took the Paris road, for all to see: but we left it beyond Orleans, to stop three miles from Morle. Then, leaving Bell with the Rolls, we made our way to the wood from which we had first observed the Château Robinet. And there we lay down and talked, with our eyes on the hideous pile.
“I think,” said Mansel, “that everything’s cut and dried: but I’ll just run through it again, for we shan’t have another chance and it is so very important that no mistake should be made. And if either of you sees any snag, he will please interrupt me at once.
“When the curtain comes down tonight, Bagot and Rowley will leave at once for Boulogne. They will take the Lowland, for the Lowland is Bagot’s car. They will drive leisurely and they will go by Paris, instead of going direct. Tomorrow afternoon Audrey will reach Boulogne: where John and Rowley will meet her and take her to Amiens. And there they will stay in their villa – the villa in which they have stayed and in which they were going to stay, when once they had left Anise.
“So much for John and Rowley. And now for us.
“As soon as the curtain falls, you and I and the servants will take the Rolls. We shall drive to Pau and there we shall turn for Bayonne. And soon after nine tomorrow, we shall cross the bridge at Hendaye and enter Spain. We shall then drive down to Gibraltar, stopping two nights on the way: and there we shall ship the car and sail for England as soon as ever we can.”